


This Empty Northern Hemisphere

by rocknerd



Series: The Death of the Hired Man [1]
Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Adventure, Character Study, Friendship, Gen, Nostalgia, Zoldyck Family - Freeform, a lot of exposition because why not, illumi has emotions, implied hisoillu - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-09
Updated: 2018-07-18
Packaged: 2019-06-07 19:17:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15226062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rocknerd/pseuds/rocknerd
Summary: Illumi sets off to find his brother, only to lose himself along the way.“Is that all you’ve done? For the past five years?”“Bringing home the heir is worth all the time I have, Kalluto, and it should be worth yours too.”"...That’s fucked up.”





	1. Dandelion Wine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set to the incredible album "This Empty Northern Hemisphere" by Gregory Alan Isakov. This chapter owes its name to _Dandelion Wine_ , the opening track.

Three summers after Killua’s disappearance, Illumi leaves the house in as close to a fury as he’s ever been, cursing Alluka and Gon and those godforsaken hunter brats who took away his little brother. He pushes past Kikyo, who is sobbing hysterically, and storms out the gates, single-minded in his pursuit. 

“There’s no point, Illumi", Father had admonished that morning, waving his hand dismissively. It was almost insulting, hearing Silva throw away the future of the family for something as petty as _ego_ , for Illumi had no doubt that ego was indeed the root of all this weak-willed pacifism. 

_Eventually he’ll return_ — a lie Illumi had scoffed at from the start, but which had seeded itself so firmly in their minds that even Kalluto, rebellious as he was, tried to persuade him to stay. 

“Please don’t leave”, Kalluto had all but begged, childlike in his persistence. Illumi didn’t know why, considering the two of them had always seen eye to eye on the subject of Killua. He told told him as much. 

The younger boy shook his head in frustration. 

_I’m not asking for Killua’s sake_ , he had spat venomously, as though Illumi was supposed to infer something from this admission. 

Except Illumi wasn’t one to leave things up to interpretation, so he suggested Kalluto be straightforward, and was met instead with an angry flurry of flower-print as Kalluto turned his back and left, his aura gleaming, volatile and wounded. 

_You’re just like your mother_ , Grandfather had added helpfully. 

_You’ve driven him away._

Illumi ignored him, used enough to his wiry tongue to bear its blows without breaking a sweat. The old man was growing senile, and that was the end of that conversation. 

He never imagined it would come to what it has, but when Milluki calls him a day after his departure and offers him a deal for information on Killua, he accepts gladly, taking over two quick jobs Milluki can’t be bothered to go through with. In exchange for a few cleanly-slit throats, Illumi receives three years' worth of clues, sightings, and vague estimations, with a few stable leads that he considers worth investigating. 

They're mostly dead ends, of course, but he doesn’t falter, not even when he spends four weeks searching a string of rickety mountainside cabins in the middle of a full-blown snowstorm. Despite upturning all the furniture and tearing down wall after wall, there isn’t so much as a fingerprint, but this is nothing more than a minor inconvenience to a man with the patience of Illumi Zoldyck, who simply crosses off the place in his mind and heads for the next location on his list. 

And so it continues for a matter of months until one sunny morning it’s summer again and his list has exhausted itself and Illumi can’t seem to fathom precisely how far away he is from home. That is the first sign. 

He walks beside a bubbling brook, observing the area for unusually singed plants that might indicate Killua’s passing by, but to no avail. After a day of concentrated _en_ and scourging the nearby forests, he comes up short once again, save for a handful of wild apples he picks up on a whim. 

He sets them down and sits by the banks of the river, listening silently as water rushes past, gurgling in merriment. Illumi sinks his fingers into the ground, palms pressing heavily against the dark, loamy soil. Eyes closed, a gentle wave of nostalgia washes over him. On a better day he might have fended off the urge to indulge it, but today has been...draining. And so he allows memories to creep behind his closed eyelids. 

***

The laughing water reminds him of Killua’s infanthood, in the days before his training was at its fullest intensity. He remembers the blue-eyed baby giggling innocently as he tugged at Illumi’s dark hair, shoulder-length at the time, soft and glossy enough to make his mother jealous. 

He remembers when the first sensory training began two years later, the wails from the basement that went on for hours at a time. It never bothered Illumi as such, but afterwards, Killua would come running into his room and throw his arms around Illumi’s neck, tiny fists balling up in his hair as he cried himself to sleep. “It hurts”, he would whine, and Illumi remembers thinking his brother was unusually responsive to pain in a way Illumi never was, even at the age of three. Nevertheless, the child seemed to find a great deal of comfort in his arms, and while Illumi knew he had to be stricter with his little brother, a tiny little piece of his heart soared with pride as he held his sibling close,  _protecting_ him. 

A month later, Father had him cut his hair short. He said he suspected it was messing with Killua’s head, to see such a soft-faced boy with long hair. Father said Illumi probably reminded Killua of his mother, and that it would ruin the heir to develop such dependancies so early on. For now, he said, doing this would help Illumi detach himself from Killua; it was essential to further his training. 

Illumi, of course, concurred, even though bitterness filled his mouth the next time Killua came to him, eyes wide in confusion. As a Zoldyck, shame was exclusively based on the disapproval of elders, and Illumi had been trained to remove such useless words and feelings from his body and mind under all other circumstances. Still, the dismay on his brother’s face sent a whip of embarrassment cracking down his spine, and he shifted his head downwards before realising there was no longer a curtain to hide his pesky emotions behind. 

Killua ran towards him, and from the impossible emptiness of the hallway, Illumi immediately knew he was being tested. He pulled his shoulders back, blinking furiously in an attempt to regain composure, and bit down on his tongue till it bled, letting the fresh pain send his mind reeling into practiced stoicism. The taste of iron wasn’t all too pleasing, but at least, he thought, he had spared himself the shame of showing weakness in front of Tsubone and his grandfather, whom he could sense stood at the end of the hallway, watching quietly. 

“Where?” Killua pointed accusingly at Illumi’s head, grabbing his brother’s jacket and pulling himself up nimbly to Illumi’s shoulders. A stunning improvement from last week, Illumi noted, as Killua started tugging at the frayed ends of his hair, left arm hooked around his neck and legs crossed around his waist. Unfortunately, his performance seemed to be dictated solely based on his emotions, which wouldn’t do for an assassin of their caliber. 

“I got it cut”, he explained simply. 

“Why?”, Killua asked. Illumi refused to look at him. 

“It was unnecessary.”

Killua frowned. “But I liked it.” 

_I liked it too._  Illumi felt the primitive answer crawl up his throat, but swallowed it quickly. What was it about Killua that turned him into a simple minded adolescent? 

“We cannot simply do whatever we like, Kil. Not without having earned the right to do so,” he recited, having had the principle hammered into his skull from the moment he was born. It was only moral, he knew, that as a dutiful member of his family, he should refrain from acting indulgently. It was his job to both succeed on behalf of the Zoldycks and facilitate the growth of the brothers under his seniority. 

And, as his Mother had put it, scissors in hand as he stood expressionless in front of the bathroom mirror, _this kills two birds with one stone._  


“But Milluki always gets what he wants,” Killua countered, unconvinced. Illumi blinked. He had never considered that. He heard his grandfather chuckle in the distance, and felt himself tense even further. His hold on the situation was slipping considerably. 

“Comparing yourself to others is a sign of insecurity, Killua. It serves nothing but to tarnish your own confidence and in turn the reputation of our family. That-“ he gripped his brother firmly by his arms, plucking him from his body, and stood him on the carpeted floor,”-is how mistakes are born. And you know the punishment for careless mistakes, don’t you?”  

Killua looked up sullenly, a petulant pout on his face. “I don’t care.”

Illumi blinked again. This defiance was nothing but counterproductive. A lick of annoyance limbered through him. Couldn’t Killua see what was wrong with thinking so selfishly? _Being a toddler is no excuse,_ Illumi fumed. He was never like this as a child. 

“Don’t you have training to do, Kil?” His eyes hardened, voice slipping into a dangerous lilt. Killua began to fidget nervously. 

“I’m done for today.”

Illumi cocked his head to the side innocently. “Are you really? It’s only three.”

“Grandfather said-“

“Grandfather is not in charge of you, Killua. Father is. Did Father say you were dismissed?”

Killua’s fists tightened, and he looked up at Illumi, eyes glinting. “I liked you better with long hair.”

Illumi’s eyebrows rose. He could tell from the shake of his voice that the toddler was still afraid to defy his brother. The thought comforted him. , _At least he respects me, even if he doesn’t yet respect our ideals._  

When Killua began to sniffle, Illumi decided he was done playing babysitter for the day. He sensed Tsubone lurking around the corner again and opened his mouth to acknowledge her, when a sudden  _thwap_  sounded against his waist. The butler stilled. 

Illumi looked down to find Killua hugging him tightly, spewing gibberish as he gripped his shirt. 

“Illu-nii, please come back.”

“Get a hold of yourself, Killua.”

“You’re different now. Where’s Illu-nii?”

_Unbelievable,_ Illumi huffed, shoving Killua away by his shoulders. The little boy wiped his nose on his sleeve, repeating the question adamantly, stomping his feet, banging his fists against Illumi’s stomach, searching the older boy’s face as if something had changed; as if something had been lost. Illumi crossed his arms, confused.  _Spoilt,_ he decided. _Killua is absolutely spoilt._

“Tsubone”, he called out, and in a blink the tall woman emerged before the two of them. Killua gasped, casting him a look of utter betrayal as Tsubone’s shadow loomed over his tiny frame. Illumi looked away.

“Why is Killua unattended to? I have work, and this-“, he gestured to the slobbering child clinging to him, “-is unhelpful.”

Tsubone bowed. “Apologies, Master Illumi. I will escort him to Master Silva immediately.” 

Killua had ceased his tantrum, hands sliding limply beside him as he let her carry him away, eyes fearful as they only were around Tsubone’s daunting presence. Illumi watched them leave, patting down his dampened shirt and boxing away the newfangled surge of guilt plaguing his mind. 

He couldn’t allow himself to soften like this-- especially not in front of the brother who most looked up to him (and who happened to be the most important). Yet, as he listened to the dull thud of Tsubone’s footsteps down the length of the corridor, he felt words spill carelessly from his lips. 

“Tsubone...”

“Yes?”

“...Today he trains under Gotoh’s supervision, not our father’s.”

From afar, Grandfather tutted disapprovingly before disappearing, and shame stung Illumi's eyes again.  _But it will be worth it,_  he convinced himself against all instinct and training, _to see Kil smile just this once._ He knew he would come to regret it, but Illumi sidelined the thought anyway. 

“Yes, young Master.”

The older boy looked up, a smile on his lips, eyes scanning Killua’s face in search of his usual cheeky grin. Instead, Illumi's gut wrenched dully. 

Killua’s stare was empty, his face ashen. He looked at Illumi as if he were a stranger, and not pleasant one at that, eyes vacant and icy. 

_And there’s the regret,_  Illumi sighed, still smiling as he faced the floor. Tsubone took off, and he was left to stew in the blooming silence.  
 

Over time, Killua learned to keep his distance from Illumi; eventually, he stopped visiting him altogether, except when Illumi managed to hold his attention with the help of his needle. Illumi didn’t mind— he knew Killua still loved him. It was simply for the good of the family that they had to be reserved around one another. After all, it seemed to boost the young boy’s abilities tremendously, and that was the ultimate goal: to foster the development of the heir to the Zoldyck business. But as Killua grew stronger with every passing day, so did the dark bags under his eyes become more pronounced, and his hair often grew unruly, curling around his ears and escaping past his collar. 

From time to time, Illumi offered to cut it for him, and sometimes he accepted. Most of the time, though, he refused to hold even casual conversation with his brother. It made Illumi was proud that Killua finally understood the inefficiency of meaningless frills and fancies, and had instead opted to work hard and well.

If there was anything at all to regret from his time as a mentor, though, it was that Illumi hadn’t quite managed to teach his younger brother how to keep his face smooth and glowing like his own. Perhaps he should have insisted the first time the dark circles had emerged under Killua’s eyes, but given Killua’s growing detachment from him, he had simply turned a blind eye and hoped for the best. Nonetheless, Illumi felt he had done a generally decent job of being a role model…

***

When he finally wanders back into reality, oranges and pinks are cutting through the clouds above, and with an absentminded “oh” Illumi pushes himself off the muddy ground. It must have been hours that he had sat there, lazing idly under the hypnosis of the babbling brook. 

_Hmm, that’s no good,_  he chides, taking a moment to sober himself before scooping up his apples and heading for the town he has been living in.  


The town square is the size of their dining room, but somehow clobbered by more people than Illumi thinks have ever set foot in the Zoldyck Mansion. The colourful mosaic of stones that pattern the ground are hidden beneath the swishing robes of the townsfolk as they greet one another enthusiastically. At the centre, an weathered fountain is surrounded by children, layered petticoats and oversized pants blending together as they chase each other, shrieking. The adults take no heed, instead bartering amongst themselves as is customary in the summers. Fruit and chocolate, firewood and rice are passed around from person to person, small bidding groups emerging for particularly valuable metal pans or stone jewellery. 

Encircling the square are column-like buildings, built of thick stone slabs with an even four floors to each one. As a result, dozens of miniature balconies are crammed against each other in rows, close enough for anyone to jump into their neighbour’s home. 

It’s against every rule of thumb Illumi has ever lived by, and yet he finds himself wanting staying longer. The bustle and clamour remind him of how Killua used to watch with glee whenever they took short excursions to nearby villages; the peals of laughter as he held something so simple as a balloon in his hand.

_Killua…_

Illumi adjusts his dark green robes around his shoulders, tucking the front around his ears to cover his face before heading through the crowd. Just as he reaches for the door handle to his building, a finger prods his back. 

He looks back, cautious, but is met with nothing. He blinks. 

_Ah._ Turning around fully, he adjusts his gaze downwards, to where a small, wrinkled woman smiles, face prune-like, with a full head of grey hair and wide set, beady eyes.

"What is it?", he asks, and her smile grows. She holds up a bag, made of jute, threaded with gold, with roughly sketched figures in red adorning its length. 

"I'll trade you this for one of those", she says, pointing a long finger at the apples he's holding. 

Illumi considers the risks. A quick use of _gyo_ determines the bag is non-threatening, and given the mindset of the people of this province, it is unlikely the woman has the mental capacity for any calculated malice. Still, it would be unwise to leave a trail of evidence with this person. _Hm._

***

The remaining apples roll around inside Illumi’s newly-acquired bag as he walks the up the narrow, winding staircase of the building. Pots and pans clang from the first floor, an argument breaks out on the second, and once he passes by the relatively calm third floor he releases his _zetsu_. The fourth floor is all his, given that the other inhabitants are under his control and hence stay clear of him. Once inside his apartment, he shakes off his outer robe and sinks into the couch, pondering the best course of action for the rest of the day. 

Perhaps he should contact Milluki. Maybe mine him for new information. He could even kill a few people in return; he missed his job anyway. But could he do so without alerting the family? Illumi looks towards the window, considering this option. _It is unlikely,_ he concludes, _that Milluki will be able to hold his own. Especially if Father questions him._

The gentle thrum of crickets reverberates through his skill like television static. 

A dandelion drifts through the window, and the sweet, humid scent of falling nighttime takes quick hold of his consciousness, twisting his insides and clogging his mind until he yawns, surprising himself, and _this won't do at all_ but  _a quick nap might be good…_

#

He stands in a field. It has been twenty five years since Illumi last had a dream, but now, as his dream-self presses bare feet against the silken dream-grass, he realises what he has been missing out on. 

The field is blanketed in dandelions, white and fuzzy and rising high, tickling his knees and brushing against his elbows as he walks through them. He raises an arm curiously, testing just how realistic this dream is, and pulls away in surprise at the feathery touch of the dandelion heads. On impulse, he drops his whole body backwards, and finds his fall padded for no apparent reason. _Perhaps this is a faulty mechanic of dream-physics,_ he ponders, lying comfortably amidst the flowers. A gentle breeze blows by, and a flurry of white seeds float through the sky overhead. He reaches two fingers out to pinch one as it flies by, nails squeezing the head until the seed bursts between his fingers. He holds the flower to his face, observing the individual strands of white bobbing gently in the wind. This one is particularly unruly, and Illumi feels a sudden urge to pluck it. He left hand reaches up, and he tugs gently at a stray wisp, removing it cleanly. 

Where it once stood, a pinprick of red emerges. _Strange. Is this another feature of dreams?_ He pulls away a second wisp only for another blob of red to begin oozing, this time trickling down his finger. 

_Blood?_ He tries again, more rough. There is a particular satisfaction he gets from tearing a wisp from its place. 

_Trch._

_Trch._

One by one the wisps fall away, until the barren dandelion is dripping with blood-like liquid, coating his fingers completely. His mouth waters. 

In a few dream-hours the field looks like a war ground, red as far as the eye can see. 

_Perfect,_ he thinks, as the last of the white disappears in a sea of red. 

But then he blinks and new dandelions have cropped up, glimmering pink from within the blood before completely shedding all traces of it. In a few more blinks, the field is as good as new, though his shirt and hands remain warm and wet and the scent sticks in his lungs. 

He rolls up his sleeves, undeterred, and begins again. 

***

He leaves the next morning.  

There has been no sign of Killua for weeks now, but after some prodding and well-used needles, he learns that one of the visiting vagabonds spotted a silver haired boy and a young girl a few weeks ago while travelling through the bustling city of Virginia May. The man noticed them in a casino, where the boy had won a grand total of 30 million jenny, much to the man’s chagrin.

Illumi sighs in disappointment. 

It saddens him that Killua has become so careless as to take up gambling as a means of sustaining himself. It had always been a bad habit of his, but Illumi thought he had rid him of it after a few rigged games of poker left the white-haired child penniless and crying. 

Apparently not. 

Well then, he must go to Virginia May. At least he knows Killua will be hard pressed to move on from the city, given his stubborn nature. He's probably lost a couple of hands by now, and, if his habits are the same as they once were, he is falling blindly into a spiral of new bets. Disgraceful.

_I guess I'm no better,_ Illumi thinks, slinging the sackful of apples over his shoulder. Although his risk isn't as sloppy, it can't be rationalised as anything but pure sentimentality. 

Even so, Illumi’s willing to pay the price for once in his life. After all, he can’t very well carry the apples in hand, and leaving them in the town would be fingerprint evidence, an absolute no-no. And what else is he to do? Eat them all in one sitting? Pah, it’s been years since he could stomach that much in one go. 

He does a final sweep of his living quarters, removes the needles from his fellow fourth-floor inhabitants, and sets off through the forest. 

Illumi plans out the journey in his head as he zips through the trees, leaving the gentle rustle of leaves in his wake. A newfound determination grips him after months of hesitant drifting. He supposes it was worth the wait, now that he has a much clearer route to Killua. The cogs in his brain begin to whirr. 

There are three major regions up ahead: Blackburn, a small industrial town known for novelty metal forgings and a black market of nen-artifacts; Vernelle, a strip of coastline with a thriving seafood industry; and Evelyn, named after the famous brand of liquor which circulated heavily within its perimeter. 

Of the three Evelyn is the largest and most crucial, seeing as the only other way into Virginia May is through the north gates, which are too far to be practical for Illumi.

If this were any other region, airships could have taken him to his destination in a matter of hours, but the multitude of political threats in the area has led to a temporary ban of both commercial and private flying. Not that it matters much, since Illumi could probably get there faster on land. 

The issue, however, lies at the border between Evelyn and Virginia May. It’s rung with a litany of regulation officers and gang operatives who work together to combat the two-way smuggling of goods, which benefits neither the gang (whose power does not extend into Virginia May) nor the police (whose jobs are made significantly tougher when drunkards meet gamblers meet nymphomaniacs in one hamfisted disaster of a suicidal orgy). 

As an alternative, smugglers often sought out an unbroken path through the Concubine Forest, an expanse of deciduous greenery to the south of Evelyn which ran up its side to wall the right border of Virginia May.

Or at least, they had tried to, until one couple had been caught crossing over with armfuls of powerful acid and ruined it for everyone. Now there was little chance for anyone to jump the fence, with strict lines of law enforcement and the threat of national coverage as a criminal, often including charges as severe as the death penalty.  

Had this situation warranted a little more clemency, Illumi would have simply sped through the forest, killed a few henchmen, and gotten in, no problem. But as it stands, his father is already unconvinced by his pursuit of the favourite child. 

Unlike Mother, Father still thinks (despite Killua having proven time and time again he is willing to sacrifice the family for his own endeavours) it is best to let things be. And while Illumi is unwaveringly of the belief that action must be taken if Killua is to return, he decides that pestering his father would probably fuel a myriad of inner missions, all of which would add to his continually mounting problems.

Therefore, he must take the layman’s route: A week’s worth of travel, first through Blackburn’s impossibly maze-like infrastructure, then down the sandy coastline of Vernelle, and finally across the 6000km stretch of Evelyn’s generally derelict enclaves, banded only by the never-ending chain of breweries, bars, and hospitals. 

Gauging the enormity of the task at hand, he sighs, a rare expression of fatigue worming its way onto his face. 

_It has been a year._

Wind whips against his face, his hair trailing behind him as he darts through the forest in long strides. Letting his body go into autopilot, his mind wanders, dandelion fuzz cottoning the corners of his thoughts, bittersweet enough to sting. _Like wine,_ he imagines, the taste of the bloodied flowers still fresh on his tongue. 

Maybe after all this is done, he’ll pay the field another visit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This whole work basically came into fruition because I read @freedomworm 's wonderful series _A Wounded Deer Leaps Highest_ and was inspired beyond belief to write about Illumi, seeing as he's one of my favourite characters anyway. idk where the plot will go tho so stick around as this gets progressively worse. The next chapter introduces more important characters. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this. I tried to proofread as best as I could but it's 2am so goodnight.


	2. Light Year

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Six years later, Gon and Kalluto strike up a deal.

"So you're telling me", Gon scowls, "that he's been stuck there for _six years?_ " 

They're sitting in a café by the beach, Kalluto fanning himself primly on one side of the table, and Gon hunched over the other, eyebrows furrowed. The dark-haired man nods irritably.

“Hmph. Something doesn’t add up.”

“What do you mean?”, Kalluto asks, voice laced with boredom. He supposes it’s only natural that Gon would suspect he has ulterior motives. Too bad he doesn’t actually have any. Would have made things more interesting, at the very least. 

“How do I know you and Illumi aren’t trying to kill me?”, Gon asks flatly. 

Kalluto blinks. He knows Gon is straightforward, but this… He clears his throat. 

"This is an inner mission”, he states firmly. “Illumi isn’t part of it, because he would never agree with what I’m doing. If anything, _I’ll_ be the one he tries to kill. Once he finds out, anyway. ” So there. _Any more questions, mountain boy?_

Gon huffs. “I don’t know... What you’re saying, especially the bit about why Illumi is stuck in Evelyn… it just doesn’t seem likely.”

Kalluto frowns. 

"You know", he begins coldly, setting down his fan. _I think I know Illumi a little better than you do._ ”I’m under no obligation to help you either. I have no motives except to save my brother. If you're unwilling to give me a chance, I'll gladly leave you alone." 

Gon stares back at him, eyes intense enough to make Kalluto nervous . In the distance, waves slam violently against rock, sending a flock of resting seagulls hastily off into the humid sky. The sun beats down angrily, and Kalluto squints. 

The whole atmosphere here is too _open._ Too exposed. He hates it. His shirt is too heavy and his ponytail is letting wind lick the back of his neck and his discomfort gets more and more apparent with every waft of fish-stink that drifts past. 

Gon breaks eye contact suddenly, sliding back into his seat with a curious smile. Kalluto hopes his own face hasn’t given anything away. At this point, he’d be lying if he said that his expressionlessness wasn't his strongest offense. 

"You've changed", the green haired man concludes. 

It’s completely off-topic, and Gon knows this. Kalluto grits his teeth. 

_Do not humour those who cannot stick to the subject at hand,_ Illumi once told him. _It is a deception tactic. It is intended to catch you off-guard, and it may well do so, but do not stray from your goal to meet theirs. Do not play the game-- it is the only way you can win._

Good advice, he knows. But one look at Gon’s infuriatingly innocent grin and his pride gets the better of him. This isn’t someone like Hisoka, who Kalluto can only guess was on Illumi’s mind when he solemnly offered those words of wisdom (unsolicited, might he add). This is an _enhancer_ , as simple minded as they come. Which only makes him more annoying to deal with. 

“How would you know?”, Kalluto snaps. _“You’ve changed”? What the fuck is that supposed to mean?_ “We’ve only met once.”

Gon shrugs. “Instinct.”

Of course. _Of course._ What more had he expected? This was the same person who thought he knew what was best for Killua. The same person who insisted he was the right choice for Killua to make, and then proceeded to drag him down into the depths of hell for the sake of nothing more than "good fights", all while waxing poetic about friendship and loyalty and heroism. Impulsive, brash, _brutish_. Of course he would blame it on _instinct_. 

“So you’re just making blind assumptions.”

Gon cocks his head to side, considering it sincerely. “That’s one way to put it. But I prefer to think of it as a simple estimation, based on experience and, well, my senses. I guess you’d know though, wouldn’t you? From what I remember, the Phantom Troupe was chock full of people like that.”

Kalluto doesn’t respond. _You wish, Gon. You wish you were as naturally talented as the Phantom Troupe are. Machi’s instinct alone could cut down your best plan of action like a knife through warm butter._

“This is irrelevant.” He glances at his watch. _2pm._ “You have three minutes to decide. I have no time to waste.”

Gon toys with the fork on his plate, face scrunched up in deep thought before he lets it drop with a clang on the table. Kalluto flinches at the ugly sound. _Brutish_ , he repeats to himself sourly. 

"Fine", the enhancer says at long last. "I accept your offer. I'll admit, I don't know whose side you’re on, but as long as I get to Killua, I have no problem helping you with Illumi's...situation." 

Kalluto nods curtly. _That settles it._ He isn’t sure whether this is good or not, especially after the way their conversation been going. If Gon is as annoying as he seems to be, this plan might take a whole lot longer to come to fruition. He motions to the older man to get up, wanting to discuss things further in a more private location. In a single graceful turn he makes for the entrance, leaving behind his untouched cup of tea.

"Wanna split the bill?" The question is cheery. He hears the creak of the metal chair as the man stands up. 

"No." He walks out. 

Gon laughs easily, running a hand through his long hair. He doesn't seem bothered; he probably expected it. 

"Alright", he shrugs, placing a few notes on the table before catching up with Kalluto on the boardwalk.

"Consider that the payment for your generous time," he jokes, nudging his shoulder with his own. 

"Don't touch me." It comes out far harsher than it was supposed to, and the dark-haired man cringes internally. _This isn't the time to be a dick. You need him on your side._

Gon holds his hands up in surrender. "Jeez, no need to be so hostile! We're working together now, so tone down the murderous looks, please." 

Kalluto keeps his mouth shut. _Don't make things worse_ , he tells himself. _Let him do the talking._

“And another thing”, Gon adds, holding his finger up in mock-anger. “I’m older than you!”

Kalluto scoffs. _I can't not respond to that! I'll look stupid!_ “Only by two years. And mentally, I’m probably a decade ahead of you.”

“Hey, respect your elders, you little punk!”

The younger man breaks a smile, and a noise of victory slips from his companion's throat. Kalluto grins wider. He might as well ruin Gon’s life a little, seeing as he has the bad fortune of being stuck with him indefinitely. 

“Well, since you’re a _responsible adult_ , Mr.Freecs, I’m sure you won’t mind paying for everything this _punk_ needs.” Gon’s eyes widen in alarm at the implication, and Kalluto laughs. 

_This might be fun after all._

He yanks at the collar of his full-sleeved shirt, pointing at how sweaty it is. Gon grimaces. 

“Let’s start with some new clothes.”

***

After spending an obscene amount of money on trousers and ugly patterned shirts, Kalluto decides he needs a drink.

“It’s only six”, Gon says, as though that means something. Kalluto rolls his eyes. _He’s probably the type to leave drinks until dinnertime. How boring._

“I need to cleanse my mind of those god-awful hawaiian shirts”, Kalluto argues. He isn’t kidding. He is a man of taste after all, born and bred to maintain high standards in every aspect of his life. And, having hidden for years behind his mothers skirts, it was only natural that he became an expert of sorts on the topic of clothing. In another lifetime, Kalluto might well have been a curator of fine material. Which is why walking into the tacky beach shack, with its limp, lifeless synthetic shirts and abhorrent fluorescent colours had nearly give him a seizure.

“You said you loved them!”, Gon says, face dismayed.

“I was being sarcastic." The more they talk, the harder it becomes for Kalluto to envision his white-haired sibling devoting Gon a moment of his time, let alone years of his life. 

"God, how did you and Killua even get along?”

Gon crosses his arms. “Well, for one thing, he appreciated the things I bought him. For another, I was not _forced_ to buy them for him.”

“You _gifted_ that shirt to me. I did not ask for it. It’s hideous.”

A guffaw. “You dragged me into the store to begin with!”

“Because I needed new clothes. Not because I needed a dishrag.”

Gon frowns. Kalluto bites the inside of his cheek. _Had that been insulting? Probably. Should he remedy the situation? Would that be too out of character? Would Killua apologise in this situation?_ Questions swarm his mind, drawing him deeper and deeper inwards until Gon coughs, pulling him out of his doubt. _Huh?_ The older man looks at him expectantly. Kalluto studies his face. _He doesn't seem angry._ Another cough. _Oh, this is a prompt!_ He remembers Nobunaga doing something similar once when Franklin insulted him. Of course, Franklin had ignored him, but Machi had rolled her eyes exasperatedly and told him to say sorry and get the theatrics over with. _Maybe you should apologise._

“Fine. I’m sorry I hurt your feelings. And your bank account.”

“Thank y-”

“-I’m _not_ sorry for that shirt that I’m going to have to burn."

“Good. Who wears sweaters to a beach anyway?” Gon retaliates, not missing a beat. 

“I will cut your tongue out”, he threatens idly. 

“Ooh... _Edgy_ ” Gon drags out the word, a playful look in his eyes. 

Kalluto grins, placing a hand on his chest to shove him away lightheartedly. 

The heat of Gon's skin sears his arm, and he draws back in an instant. The tingling in his fingers clears his mind and he realises just how relaxed he has been, how easily he has left his guard down. It's almost an alien sensation. _He’s being… friendly?_ And with Gon, of all people. Kalluto blames it on being starved of normal human contact his whole life. 

“What are you thinking about?”

He looks up. The older man is strolling beside him casually, head turned upwards as he watches the first stars emerge in the pink sky. His hair, which Kalluto remembers as being spiked up unnaturally, now rests messily against his shoulders, ends sticking out in every direction. In all honesty, the difference had startled him when they met at the café early in the afternoon. And that isn't all. Gon's voice is now deeper, mature. His eyes are world-weary. Yet there remains an innocent lilt to his speech, and a glimmer of innocuous curiosity as he asks his question. He's different, but the same. 

“I’m thinking about how good a drink would be right now”, Kalluto says slowly, voice low. The once crowded beach is now empty, quiet. The waves slosh gently against the sand. 

“Are you even old enough?”, Gon teases. 

“I’ve been drinking since I was four", he says absent-mindedly. He receives a worried look, and clarifies,”It was part of the training. My tolerance level is far above average.” 

Gon nods in understanding, stuffing his hands in his pockets. _Killua used to do that. Mother always nagged him about it. Does he still walk that way?_

“I forgot about that.”

“About what?” Kalluto doesn't really care what, but something has been making him say and do all manner of stupid things today, so he decides he might as well play along. 

“How messed up your family is”, Gon says simply, sparing him a quick glance before staring intensely at his own feet. 

Immediately, a surge of indignant anger flares within him. _Does he think that's funny?_ The carefree atmosphere dissipates entirely. _How dare he. How dare Gon talk about the state of his family when it was all his fault in the first place?_ Kalluto clenches and unclenches his fists, trying his hardest to subdue his rage. 

Gon doesn’t even look at him. 

_How can he be so dismissive? He knows, he knows, he knows he is the reason Killua left. Alluka was let out. Illumi left. Mother became ill. Father rarely stepped out of the house. Since then, Grandfather, Milluki, and Kalluto have had to hold the family together. Mostly Grandfather and Kalluto, because Milluki wastes away as he always has. So, how does this scum have the gall to insult the family he has wrecked? How?_

_Well_ , says the voice of reason in his head, pushing through his angst-ridden lament, _he must be talking about your training, how merciless and cold-blooded he perceives the Zoldycks to be. You must remember, Kalluto, that he doesn’t know, nor will he ever understand the nature of assassins. He is simple. He cares for Killua, and believes the family hurt Killua. It is only logical, in his mind, that those who "hurt" him are in the wrong._

As they walk further, Kalluto manages to calm himself down. He blinks away the hot tears blurring his vision, head lowered. He can sense Gon is being cautious, and the tense silence between them grows more awkward by the second. 

"And here I thought we were actually making progress", he grumbles bitterly.

 _You have been taught the world of black and white, Kalluto, but the grey is where most people live. Every perspective has its reasons. It will do you good to keep that in mind as you move forward._ Chrollo’s voice echoes in his skull. His days with the Ryodan had been a steep learning curve, and as he lay defenceless and broken at Chrollo’s feet, he had learnt the taste of true defeat. 

“I know you think it’s my fault-”, Gon starts, but Kalluto can’t bear to hear what comes next. 

“You’re right. My family is pretty fucked up. But so is yours.”

Gon looks taken aback. He stops in his tracks. Kalluto pretends not to notice, moving forward. _At least I caught him off guard_ , he thinks. It's petty revenge (the best kind). Besides, he knows it won't have much more of an effect than water off a duck's back-- Gon's probably heard it all when it comes to daddy issues. So Kalluto might as well as drop a bucketful over his head. Of water, that is. This metaphor isn't working. 

Anyway, his gaze shifts to the older man, who relaxes his shoulders, a wry smirk appearing on his face. 

“I guess we're in the same boat.”

Kalluto nods, turning to face him. 

“So”, he sighs, mirroring Gon’s stance, “how about that drink?”

***

At three in the morning, Kalluto understands why Illumi never made it back home. 

“And you know what I told him?”, Gon slurs angrily, slamming his empty glass down on the counter. He wipes his mouth on his sleeve messily before continuing. 

_Brutish,_ Kalluto’s mind blathers. _What does that even mean anymore? Is it just how he's going to refer to Gon from now until eternity?_ He holds his cup out for the bartender to refill. 

“On his tab?”, the bartender asks slyly. 

“Mine”, he replies, half-listening as he turns back to Gon.

“I said-- no, listen, Kalluto, you know what I said? I said to him, to Killua, my best friend in the whole universe, I said-- _”I didn’t mean it.”_ ” At that, Gon begins to laugh, voice catching every now and then as he hiccups through a peal of hysteria, tears hitting the weathered planes of his cheeks without him even realising. Kalluto joins in the laughter, because it’s too sad not to, and also because he’s beyond wasted and doesn’t really know how that happened. 

Well, he does, but he doesn’t know why he let it happen. 

_Well._

Regardless of the specifics, he’s now drunk off his ass (which is really saying something, considering he's a Zoldyck) and Gon won’t stop downing his whisky like it’s water and the situation is generally a mess. Or at least, it's not what Kalluto had envisioned the take off of his master plan to look like. The bar is still crowded, so they don’t look out of place, but it’s clear as day to anyone in the vicinity that Quiet Drunk and Talkative Drunk are very, _very_ out of it. 

“Kalluto, Kalluto”, Gon shakes him by the shoulder even though he hasn’t looked away for nearly fifteen minutes. Or maybe that’s why he’s shaking him? _Damn sleeveless shirt,_ Kalluto curses, blinking to try and snap out of his daze. 

“What?”, he manages, cheeks pinkening when Gon moves closer so their noses are centimetres apart. _Don't look down, don't look down_ , he pleads with himself, keeping violet eyes trained on brown ones. The enhancer's breath is putrid, and the stench of it successfully sobers Kalluto, who pushes him away hastily, gagging.

The green-haired man begins to stumble as he gets up from his barstool.

“Rude”, he remarks, jabbing a finger in Kalluto’s face. Under different circumstances, he would’ve shoved it away, but for some strange reason, all he can do is stare at Gon’s well-defined chest and his exceptional forearms and- _What the hell, Kalluto!_

He grabs Gon’s wrist. “I think we should go now.”

Gon is still looking at him intensely. “Okay.”

***

The two of them are back on the boardwalk, crossing over to where both of their hotel rooms happen to be. They end up in silence once again, the only sound the creaking of wooden boards under Gon’s heavy feet. 

“You know, when I first saw you, I thought you were a girl.”

_How original._

“You know”, Kalluto mocks, adjusting Gon’s arm on his shoulder as he steadies him, “When I first saw you, I knew you were a brute.”

Gon lets out a bark of laughter. “That sounds like a compliment.”

_How the fuck was that a compliment?_

“I can assure you it’s not.”

Gon pulls his arm back, instead balancing himself against the railing beside him. 

“Do you still think I’m a brute?”

Kalluto’s too drunk for this. It sounds like the kind of sentimental crap Shizuku and Phinks used to watch on the television whenever they raided hotel rooms together. 

“Yes”, he replies. He's not sure where this conversation is even going anymore, but he can feel Gon smiling beside him and it’s getting on his nerves. It’s still a long walk to the beach, so he just smiles back and hopes that’s enough to shut him up. 

“Oh my, how romantic.”

Both of them stiffen. A third voice. 

Dark clouds are pulled forward by the gust of wind that rushes past viciously. The moon flickers briefly before disappearing entirely. In but a moment, the two young men are enveloped in darkness.

The turn around as quickly as they can, _rens_ activate reflexively, but it's hardly effective, their minds are still weak from the alcohol. A figure stands still, hidden in the shadows, and a thick, sinister aura rushes towards them. Kalluto reaches for his fan, but it’s knocked out of his hand in a flash. He doesn’t move. _I cannot win this fight._ Gon, however, steps forward, left hand gripping the railing tightly. His eyesight is still formidable despite the darkness they’re drenched in. He grits his teeth. 

“Hisoka.”

Kalluto groans inwardly. _This is not good._ Hisoka’s heels clack against the wood, purposeful, powerful. He shudders at the sound. The wind dies down, and the moonlight begins to bleed feebly. Kalluto blinks, adjusting to the light as the magician stands before them, a fan held up to his face coyly. Hunger flashes in his amber eyes. 

“Mind if I join in? ♡”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Called _Light Year_ because of the song by Gregory Alan Isakov. The lyrics are a bit too romantic to fit the interactions between these two boys, but the general mood fits the relatively light-hearted relationship they have. I feel like Gon and Kalluto aged up would make great friends, but I can't imagine Kalluto would be able to forgive him for the havoc he created in the Zoldyck Family. also lol @ hisoka interrupting their moment. 
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed it. Feedback is much appreciated! :)


	3. Interlude: Words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hisoka has plenty to wonder about his dark-haired non-friend, but there are two things he is now sure of: One, Illumi is losing himself. Two, Illumi wants him.

_One year before Gon and Kalluto meet in Vernelle._

Illumi sits on the roof of a church, one hand clutching the neck of a green bottle, the other resting on his knee. Hisoka is perched on a nearby tree, and has been for about half an hour, cooling off after a twenty mile sprint under the still gaze of the moon. He isn’t tired, of course, but he had begun to sweat profusely after the run, and that mixed with the layer of soot powdering his arms and neck made him, by all accounts, an unpleasant sight. Which just wouldn’t do, especially not when this meeting had taken months to set up. So he had made for the closest tree to sort himself, looking up just in time to catch a sliver of darkness wind itself through the open doors of the church. A few seconds later, fleshy _thumps_ echoed in tandem, and Illumi had walked out, bottle in hand. Hisoka was half-certain the assassin looked directly at him, but he barely had time to process the action before the man jumped up to the roof, proceeding to sit as still as a painting. 

As time passes, the magician’s chaotic handiwork begins to show itself in the distance. He searches for a reaction on Illumi’s face, but—as usual—there is little to work with. He waits a little longer, and, when the screams of terror begin to drift towards him over the whistle of the dry wind, Hisoka decides he should probably drop by soon. 

Dusting the last of the ash off his clothes, Hisoka makes a quick leap, landing on the toes of his heeled shoes onto the dirty, browning roof. He walks up behind Illumi (who takes no notice), arms crossed as he surveys the spray of fires blossoming in the distance. The church is located a ways away from the main city, its pre-something walls aged and sagging with moss, weeds, and— after Illumi turned up— drying blood. For miles around, there is nothing but beaten path, a few trees holding their own despite the rain-starved climate. And then, straight ahead from their current vantage point, beyond the foray of shrubbery and wrecked junkyard vehicles, lies the gleaming land of civilisation, currently ablaze in about five different places, with the flames showing no indication of stopping any time soon. The wails of ambulances and firetrucks soar over loud baritone gongs of the church bell. Droning Gregorian chants bleed out of an old gramophone inside the building, drifting upwards through the stained-glass windows. It’s almost picturesque, and Hisoka finds he is rather pleased with how the whole thing has turned out. He hums in contentment. 

“Is this your way of saying hello?”, the familiar aloof tone asks. Illumi continues to face forward, fingers still wound tightly around the bottle. 

“Think of it as a gift”, Hisoka says, tossing a Jack of Clubs idly towards his head. The assassin’s upper body clicks to the side, robotic, and he catches it between his teeth in a split-second. A thin line of pink scars the left side of his pale face, but he is otherwise unscathed. He holds the card between two fingers and flings it back without hesitation.

Hisoka’s lip curls as the card spins toward him like one of Illumi’s needles, seemingly defying the laws of physics as it spirals through the air with little effect on speed or power. He reaches a hand out to stop it when it suddenly changes course, dropping to the level of his feet and surging forward. 

If he weren’t used to Illumi’s general unpredictability, Hisoka might’ve had his foot cut clean off, but he jumps out of the way, letting the card whizz past and sink thickly into the foot of the decrepit cemented cross behind them. A sizzle. His pant leg is torn. Unfortunate.

“Trying to pull me down a peg or two?”, he jokes, moving to sit beside Illumi. The assassin’s large eyes finally turn to him, the mark on his cheek more pronounced under the moonlight. 

“No”, Illumi answers, motionless. 

Hisoka doesn’t wait for an explanation. He had learnt from their first few conversations that the younger man didn’t like to share unless there was an explicit need for it. Hisoka doesn’t mind; he is the same. Instead, he eyes the bottle. It’s filled with dark liquid, gluggy and foaming. 

“What is that?”

“Hm?”

Illumi blinks, following his line of sight slowly before he catches on. For such an observant man, he really can be quite oblivious.

“Oh, this.” He holds the bottle up, swishing its contents around. ”I’m surprised you don’t recognise it.” He flips it over before sending it Hisoka’s way. The magician scans the small label on the side. 

“Ninety-seven percent alcohol, huh? But what’s with the colour?” _And just how bad is this situation?_ He knows Illumi has a penchant for hard liquor, but this seems a tad bit suicidal, especially since it can’t have been his first bottle. Hisoka is pretty certain of this, seeing how the assassin wasn’t able to evade his card’s edge just a few minutes ago. His reflexes were obviously being impaired, but that isn’t even the strangest part. 

He knows Illumi could have easily held his hand up to catch it. It was the cleanest way to stop his attack. Yet he had opted for a riskier approach. A showier approach. Something he himself might have attempted, had he been in Illumi’s place. It was completely unlike him to waste effort on something so casual. But he had done it. 

Hisoka’s suspicions only grow as he observes the irritated, almost imperceptible itch of Illumi’s toe, hidden from view in his flats, but moving agitatedly enough for him to realise: Illumi is currently far drunker than his sober self would approve of. The question is— _why?_

“It’s nothing special, just some artificial colouration is all.” 

Well, anything that could get Mr.Zoldyck to show weakness was probably strong enough to sedate a bull. Hisoka doesn’t much enjoy the idea of letting his guard as far down as Illumi is at the moment. But one sip shouldn’t matter. In the end, his curiosity wins out as it always has. 

“Mind if I-”

“Go ahead”, Illumi nods. In hindsight, that should have tipped him off about what was to come. Rarely did the assassin show such eagerness as to interrupt him, polite even in the most unfavourable of circumstances. But in the moment, Hisoka isn’t fully aware of this. After all, with his flaring aura and the steely weight of his eyes, Illumi already looks different. Emotional, even. The past three years seem to have taken a profound toll on him. And since they haven’t gotten around to baring their souls to each other just yet, Hisoka interprets the gesture as an awkward, drunken ice-breaker. 

He plucks the stopper away, nose hunting for the familiar scent of ethyl. He is met instead with a face-full of… nothing? The drink has a peculiar odourless-ness. He shoots Illumi a suspicious glance, receiving only a blank stare in response. 

From the redness of his now empty hand, Hisoka guesses Illumi’s particularly pissed off, which means it’s unlikely he’ll try to kill him. Illumi has always thought of emotion as a weakness in battle, a handicap. And as much as the magician might annoy him, Illumi would never kill before bringing his senses to order. He might try to fight him though, which makes this a win-win situation. It’s sort of a stretch, but Hisoka decides to take his chances. 

He brings the mouth of the bottle to his lips, tossing his head back for a generous swig, and suddenly, the smell hits him. _Bad idea._

He tears it away from him, unable to keep down his coughs as he chokes on the drink, lungs screaming through the foul miasma. His throat burns and his eyes water as he all but gags, a display so uncharacteristically vulnerable it makes him seethe, even as his vision clouds and white light swirls before him. 

Illumi grabs the bottle back mid-seizure, a wicked smile curling on his thin lips as he lets the magician flail clumsily beside him. He watches in curiosity as Hisoka’s amber irises flit back and forth like ping pong balls in his head, eyelids fluttering at breakneck speed. 

Blinking past the sharp sting of the alcohol, Hisoka glowers, bloodlust throbbing in his veins. 

“Enjoying the show, are we Illumi?” He spits the name out hotly. 

Illumi rests his head on his palm, elbow on knee, his long hair falling to one side. “Of course.”

Hisoka wipes his sweaty forehead on the back of his hand. He breathes heavily. “I suppose you can handle it better than I.”

Illumi nods again. “Of course”, he repeats, the lilt in his voice gleeful. 

The redhead scowls. “I never took you for a sadist.” If he’s being honest, it’s kind of a turn on to think that, past his veneer of his monk-like forbearance, Illumi’s practically devouring his panic. _We have more in common than professional ambition, it seems._

“I am not”, the assassin agrees, taking his own swig out of the bottle with an easy grace. Definitely not the first time. “Or at least, I am not usually. “ 

“Except...”, Hisoka prompts, voice as moist as a kiss. His stomach is on fire, for reasons other than the vile drink currently chewing away at his insides. The betrayal already forgotten, he relishes the smug look on Illumi’s face. His lips are pinker than usual, and Hisoka knows what’s coming; is waiting for the words to slip out of his mouth, wishes he could somehow yank them out of the man’s body and reaffirm what they mean. 

“Except I am interested in your death.” Illumi finishes. 

_Yesss._

The thought hangs over them as helicopters arrive in the city. 

“That makes two of us”, the magician growls, his heart thumping manically in his chest. Just the thought of Illumi, his miles of dark hair following his fluid movements, lithe fingers clamped around his throat, nails piercing his skin— it makes his head spin. And then he thinks of the blood, pouring out of Illumi’s broken body as he kneels on the ground, helpless for the first time in his life, but still unyielding, unwilling to admit defeat to him, big black eyes tearing him to shreds with hatred and repulsion as Hisoka bends down- 

Illumi taps the side of the bottle with a long nail. _His nails digging into my throat and-_

“I’m not fighting you, Hisoka.”

_Fuck._

He didn’t expect to be turned down so easily, but he can see his window of opportunity vanishing before his eyes. He groans, frustration continuing to build inside of him until he can’t think straight at all. 

“You’re such a tease”, he sighs, running fingers through his hair, trying his best not to pull it all out. His body is visibly tensed; thinly-veiled restraint. He can’t have that. Not now, after he’s been turned down. He tries a bit of misdirection, letting his hands wander around his thighs obscenely to take the focus off of the desperation etched on his face. 

“I never said I wanted to kill you. I said I was interested in your death.” Illumi ignores Hisoka’s crude gestures. 

“Don’t be fastidious, Illumi. You would crack every bone in my body in half without a second thought. If you _could,_ anyway.” 

A small smile appears on his face at Hisoka’s unsubtle goading. “Maybe one day, when I have nothing useful to do and nowhere to be.”

A carelessly intimate proposition. Nothing more than a playful “never”. But interesting. _When I have nothing useful to do._ He tucks the thought away, pulling a frown. 

“This is a very painful rejection, you know. In more ways than one.”

The assassin averts his gaze pointedly at the remark. _I’m done with this conversation,_ his posture says. 

“I have something to discuss with you.” His words are clipped, careful. They always are, but Hisoka has spent enough time around him to tell that he’s anxious.

The older man lolls his head to the side, upper body held up by his elbows. _You have my attention._

“I realise now”, Illumi begins, pointing to the gasps of smoke staining the air, the fires having been put out, “that I have been expecting you to find me.”

“Oh? Yes, I suppose the call made it clear enough.” The call that _he_ had to make, after Illumi texted him at 12am in the middle of a half-decent jerking-off session telling him to call back. Yes, that call had been pretty clear. Also yes, he had continued to jerk off both during the phone call and after it. He likes to think Illumi knew what he was doing. And he likes to imagine something similar was happening on the other end of the line. The more Hisoka _thinks_ about it, the likelier it seems. After all, sexual release is probably nothing more than a burden to Illumi. A chore. It makes sense that he might multitask when completing said chore. Hisoka’s mind begins to wander off, but Illumi’s voice cuts through the haze.

“No. What I mean to say is, I have been… considering requesting your company for some time now.” He furrows his eyebrows as if he doesn’t quite understand his own behaviour. “I find it strange.”

It is strange. Illumi has never used the word ‘company’ like that before. It’s always ‘assistance’, or ‘cooperation’, or, once, (and only once because Hisoka refused to let go of how fucking dramatic it sounded) _allyship_. ‘Company’ wasn’t a professional evaluation of his use to the problem at hand. ‘Company’ was a warm word, with a warm sound. _Considering requesting my company, have you?_ In layman terms, this was as good as “I missed you.” And coming from _him,_ it was probably a whole lot more. A dangerous idea, but one Hisoka could perhaps work with to suit his needs. _When I have nothing useful to do and nowhere to be_ He turns the idea over in his head, piecing together a little scheme for later. _Perhaps I can realise this wistful little dream of yours._

Illumi is still thinking hard, his lips turning downwards as he tries to pin down his own thoughts. The magician feels something close to affection, lukewarm and heavy, dragging his face into a rare, half-pleasant smile. 

“Is this a confession?” It isn’t so much a mockery as a teasing jab. 

“It’s an observation.” Ah. He’d forgotten that Illumi likes to conveniently lose his sense of humour whenever Hisoka makes a joke. 

He motions for the bottle, taking another mouthful. If he’s going to get through this, he’s going to need a lot more. 

“What’s this about?”, he asks, voice deep and quiet and, some might say, concerned.

“I have been careless”, Illumi rubs his bruised cheek, a string of unspoken words filtering in his brain as he searches for the right phrasing. He looks positively lost. 

Hisoka thinks about the needle he found in the city just this afternoon, purged of aura but distinctive enough for him to notice, branding the forehead of a young woman in an alleyway. It had looked like an amateur’s work, pin sticking out clumsily from above her eyebrow. Her eyeballs had bled through and her face was messy with mud. He thinks of the needle now, comfortably tucked into the hidden pocket in his boxers, waiting to be used. Careless was the right word. Although something tells him it was, in some way, intentional. 

Illumi would never acknowledge it. Never accept that something was so firmly out of his grasp and yet causing him to act so impulsively. Hisoka imagines he would have a particularly catastrophic mental breakdown if he ever did realise it. 

Now that sounds like fun. 

He might even get a good fight out of it. And that’s an opportunity he just can’t miss out on. The first thing to do, he decides, is break Illumi’s facade of calmness. He needs to agitate him enough to get a reaction. And as for what happens after, he hasn’t got a clue. 

“You’re lost, Illumi.” 

“What?” The reaction is enough to spur him on. 

“I agree, you’ve been careless. I was able to trace you all the way back from Blackburn. You don’t really know what you’re doing, do you?” 

It’s half a lie. Hisoka hadn’t in fact been able to trace him from Blackburn. Actually, the whole “find me” situation had bored him pretty quickly after the first week. After a month it had irritated him beyond belief. Which was why he had ventured into Evelyn, hoping to drink some of his bloodlust away. Except that didn’t work, and he’d ended up killing more pathetic, useless wimps than he’d wanted to. It was also where he found the needle. And once he was firmly in the city, Illumi had noticed his aura and texted him their rendezvous point. 

Still, it’s the question that hits Illumi the hardest, and his aura grows darker. 

“That wasn’t what I-“

“I mean, look at you. Drunk in the middle of nowhere-“

“-I am not done with my sent-“

“-not to mention the dead people in the church below us-“

“-trying to-“

“-you have no idea where your brother is-“

Illumi bangs a first against the roof in sudden anger, his eyes burning. _That was quick._ “May I finish my point?”, he snarls. 

_Tch. If you can get to it sometime this year._

“Certainly.”

 

***

 

They lie in blissful silence until Hisoka initiates another useless conversation. 

“This is uncomfortable.”

“Hm? I think it’s fine.” Illumi pats the soft mattress beneath them as if to demonstrate. 

Hisoka frowns deeply. “I wasn’t talking about the bed.”

The reply doesn’t register with Illumi. He’s too focused on the word _uncomfortable_. He blinks. Once. Twice. Thrice. The ceiling fan is groaning as it turns. The room is hot. Not hot enough to warrant getting up to change the speed, but hot. His body is glistening with sweat, his hair is tangled, and the man beside him won’t shut up. In normal units of measurement, he surmises, there must indeed be a level of discomfort to the whole scenario. 

“I guess it is uncomfortable”, he concludes, lifting an arm to rest above his head. _But Hisoka isn’t normal. So why does he feel uncomfortable?_

The man in question sits up, his back facing him as he reaches down to pick up his boxers. It’s a nice back, Illumi notes, before returning to the noisy fan overhead. _How did he not notice it before?_

Hisoka falls back in bed, pulling the covers over himself. 

“Why the sudden bashfulness?”, Illumi asks, nodding to the now covered abdomen beside him. It isn’t like Hisoka has anything to be ashamed about. Quite the contrary, if the assassin’s sore body is anything to go by. 

Hisoka shuts his eyes. “You know I’m shy.”

He is. He was. It was surprising, given the experience he boasted. In fact, he was so shy that Illumi had considered, midway through proceedings, slapping a few needles in his head and telling him to get over himself. In the end, he had settled for a little bit of pain to loosen him up. It worked a miracle, as Illumi’s bloodied mouth and white-knuckled wrists would probably tell you. 

“Turn over”, Illumi orders, grasping red hair firmly between his fingers. Hisoka complies knowingly, a soft groan escaping his lips as Illumi tightens his grip. 

Once comfortably on his stomach, Illumi lets himself admire the view. Streaks of red slash across skin, some cutting deeper than others. The assassin runs a gentle hand down the curve of his spine, fingers occasionally catching in the dark grooves. The magician hisses. 

“You really are a sadist.”

“So are you”, Illumi retorts, offering his shoulders as proof. 

Hisoka grins, hair falling in his face lazily. His eyes scan the purpling bruises blooming on pale skin. It’s the second time tonight. His stay has lasted longer than expected. 

“Now that was fun.”

Illumi cocks his head to the side. “You said it was uncomfortable.”

“I was talking about the bed”, Hisoka deadpans. 

Illumi feels a laugh escape him. It’s foreign. Innocent. Unbearably primitive. But good. Helpful. His mind is clearing now. He threads fingers through his dark hair absentmindedly, untangling the knots. Hisoka drops his head onto the pillow, left hand reaching out for his thigh. The touch sends a cold shudder through Illumi. He ignores the magician’s cheshire grin at the fact, but makes note of his own response. _Unusually responsive. Sensitivity too high._ Illumi decides that he has denied himself sex for far too long, and that this may have contributed significantly to his carelessness and general incompetence over the past year. He needs to schedule time for it in the future. 

The fan begins to squeak. Uncomfortable. 

“Did you notice that earlier?”

“Hmm?” 

“The fan. Did you notice how noisy it was when we came in here?”

Hisoka chuckles. “I didn’t hear much over the sound of y-“

“So you didn’t.”

The magician runs his tongue over his top lip, an annoyed look on his face. _He doesn’t like being interrupted._ “No, I didn’t”, he relents. 

“Can you fix it?”

“Can’t you?” He sounds bored now, hand dropping away from Illumi’s thigh as he rolls over to go to sleep. A surge of yearning floods Illumi’s chest, and he reaches out to pull Hisoka back, hand pressing into his bicep tightly. The magician raises an eyebrow. 

“My needles are somewhere on the floor. Can you use your nen?”

Hisoka’s eyes harden as he watches the younger man’s face. Illumi knows what he's thinking; he could very well fix it himself, with needles or without, and probably do a better job of it at that. But he’s asking for his help. Again. Because…because…he’s tired? No, he isn’t. Lazy? Impossible. He’s incapable of laziness. _So what is it?_ Why does he so desperately crave Hisoka’s words, the sound of his voice, his warmth? He doesn’t _like_ his words, can barely tolerate the syrupy cadence of his baritone, has enough warmth to sustain himself. So _why?_ The answer evades him by a mile and a half, and it’s frustrating enough for him to let out a little sound of despair. 

He looks to the magician, whose mouth is slowly curling just as it did before they’d first kissed. _He knows why._ But Illumi doesn’t. This…this _clown_ knows why Illumi has been acting so strangely around him, but he doesn’t. Illumi would very much like to die now, the desperation of his actions pinking his cheeks. A low hum echoes beside him, and the assassin hears sheets rustling gently as Hisoka moves closer, looking pleased with himself. _That makes one of us,_ Illumi sighs as a blanket falls over him, pulling his shoulders towards the older man. 

“Can you fix the fan or not?” 

Hisoka nods, raising an arm to the ceiling. Bungee Gum glows neon in the darkness of the room, early sunlight giving it a faded shine. Illumi can feel it climbing like a parasite into his lungs. Hisoka’s breath tickles his ear, invasive and cruel and delicious. 

_“Certainly.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this was interesting. I'm trying to convince myself that this chapter is super important because a) Hisoka and Illumi are a fun pair and b) it reveals some of Illumi's personal issues and desires through the eyes of his closest companion kinda maybe? Idk, I'm starting to realise this story is meandering along, so heads up on that. The story will eventually pick up, but I'm not really a plot person in general so it might be a while before that happens. SO yea, thank you for reading! I really do appreciate it.


End file.
